Wild Pitch (3 page)

She stared at one of them and then the other, daggers shooting from her fiery blue eyes.

“Let me help you up,” Eddie offered.

“Don’t touch me!” she yelled, drawing away from him as if he were some kind of poisonous insect. “I’ll help myself!”

While she started to unscramble herself from the bike and pick herself up, Eddie got the paper sack and started to refill
it with the onions, the tomatoes, the head of lettuce, and the box of salt. Tip had picked up the egg carton and was replacing
the few eggs that had managed to survive the accident.

“There are only four that were broken,” he observed. “The rest look okay.”

Phyl Monahan glared at him. “Only four?” she yelled. “Do you know how much eggs cost? But how
would you? You probably know nothing about eggs except to eat them! Neither one of you look as if you’ve got an ounce of brains
—”

She stopped as Eddie took out his imitation-leather coin purse and the folded dollar bill he had stashed in it. He’d been
carrying it around for two weeks, waiting for something worthwhile to spend it on.

“Here,” he said, unfolding it and handing it to her. “Take it. Here’s also fifty cents. If that’s not enough — ”

“Here’s my dollar, too,” Tip cut in, unrolling a bill and holding it out to her.

She grabbed Eddie’s. “One’s enough,” she said. Then she looked at the ugly blotch of smashed eggs on the street. “What a mess.
You guys ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

“The rain will wash it away,” said Eddie.

Monahan grabbed her bike, lifted it upright, and started to ride it away, but stopped suddenly when a loud, rubbing sound
came from the front wheel.

“Oh, great!” she said sharply. “You’ve dented the fender. It’s rubbing against the wheel.”

“Maybe I can fix it,” said Eddie. He stepped to the bike, grabbed the dented fender, and tried to pry it away from the wheel.
It wouldn’t budge.

“Who do you think you are?” Monahan snapped.
“Mr. Muscles? Walk it home for me. That’s the least you can do.”

Eddie looked at Tip. “Stay here with the bikes. I’ll walk it home for her.”

He walked it alongside her while she carried the bag of groceries. Halfway down the block she stepped into a driveway, turned,
and looked at him.

“Lean it against the garage,” she ordered, looking at him as if he were a kind of insect she didn’t like. “And, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, placing the bike where she had told him to. Then he ran back up the street to where Tip was waiting
for him.

“Man!” he said. “What a woman!”

They got on their bikes and headed home. The heck with the ice cream, Eddie thought. He had lost his appetite for it. Even
Tip, whose only fault was that he had gone along with Eddie’s crazy idea, didn’t care about having the stuff.

“I just don’t understand why you wanted to go that way in the first place,” Tip exclaimed as they took their time riding home.

“I just wanted to see where she lived. Her neighborhood,” replied Eddie.

“But, why? What difference does it make?”

“No difference.”

“You wanted to see what she looks like in jeans? Is that it?”

“No. I told you. I just wanted to see where she lived. That’s all there is to it. Forget it. Okay?”

Tip could get real aggravating at times, he thought.

“You’re crazy, you know that? You’re really crazy, Eddie Rhodes.”

Sometimes a guy does things he can’t understand, Eddie told himself. If he can’t understand why he does them, how can he explain
them? He just can’t.

They rode their bikes down the street to their homes, Eddie splitting first, giving a wave to Tip as Tip rode on.

It had turned out to be a very unsatisfying evening.

Harry Goldman pitched in the game against the
Pirates. Eddie watched it from the bench, taking his turn to coach at first base at the top of the fourth inning.

He had hoped he would pitch, because whoever pitched today wouldn’t be pitching next Tuesday. Coach Inger liked to alternate
his pitchers just as he did his infielders and outfielders. He didn’t carry more than a thirteen-man team, and alternated
his infielders and outfielders in the same game.

The Pirates were leading 6–1. The Lancers had gotten five hits off Shifty McGoon, the Pirates’ left-hander, but hadn’t been
able to bunch them together.

Eddie kept his eye on Coach Inger, noticing the tanned, knitted forehead, the intense, intelligent eyes. The coach still had
hopes of lifting the Lancers out from under.

But how? Eddie wondered. He considered one possibility, but it was a slim one.

He’s going to have me go in there, Eddie assumed. I can feel it. And I hope he does. Because then he would have me start against
the Surfs next Tuesday, and have Harry finish it. Which would be fine with me. I don’t want to pitch against that girl any
more than I have to.

Eddie’s guess was confirmed the next inning. Rod Bellow was coming to the plate in the top of the fifth when the coach asked
Puffy to coach first and had Pete Turner, the second-string catcher, warm up Eddie.

By now Eddie didn’t care whether he pitched or not. Unless something drastic happened to his pitching arm he was sure he’d
be in the game against the Surfs. Even pitching four or five innings would mean he’d face Phyl Monahan at least twice.

They went to the bullpen behind the third-base bleachers. He began throwing them slowly, then gradually harder. His first
fast pitch sailed off to the right and out of Pete’s reach. It bounced near the fence and rolled toward the left-field foul
line.

“Hey, man,” Pete said. “Keep them in the batting zone, okay?”

“Sorry,” said Eddie.

Pete started to chase after the ball, but some kid sitting by the fence went after it, picked it up, and threw it back to
him.

Eddie threw in a few more, trying hard to maintain control. He had a strong arm, one of the strongest in the league, according
to Coach Inger. The coach once said that Eddie could be the best pitcher in the league were it not for his wild pitches. All
Eddie had to do was practice on his control and eventually he’d come around.

No one had to tell him he still had a long way to go.

He had thrown about twenty pitches when there was a shout from the stands, and a few seconds later Coach Inger appeared from
around the corner of the third-base bleachers.

“Eddie! Come on.”

Eddie tossed the ball back to Pete and went around the bleachers to the mound. He accepted a brand-new ball from the umpire,
waited for Tip to get on his gear, then began throwing in warmup pitches.

The plate umpire turned to face the crowd. “Pitching for the Lancers — Eddie Rhodes!”

“Yaaaaay!” sang the fans.

He had trouble finding the strike zone with the Pirates’ first batter, and walked him. He was more
careful with the next. He didn’t throw too hard, and the batter hit into a double play. He struck out the third batter on
a pitch that might’ve been called a ball, but the guy was too eager to hit and lashed at poor pitches.

Puffy met Eddie near the base path between home and third as they headed in toward the dugout. A teasing grin played on his
round face.

“Well, buddy boy, looks like you’re going in against the Surfs next week.”

“Yeah.” A dismal look came over Eddie’s face.

“And Monahan,” Puffy added.

“Monahan? Who’s Monahan?”

Puffy laughed. “As if you didn’t know.”

They reached the dugout, and Eddie tossed his glove under the bench, turned, and sat down.

Tip came in, the buckles of his shin guards clanking. He smiled at Eddie through the smudges of sweaty dirt that covered his
face.

“That last batter really went for your wild ones, didn’t he?”

“An eager beaver,” agreed Eddie. “That’s the kind I like.”

He moved over to give Tip room. Tip sat down, the seat of his pants caked with dirt.

“Good thing you’ve got me catching you or that
fence behind home plate would be in big trouble,” said Tip.

Eddie tapped him on the knee. “What’re you squawking about? I’ve only walked one guy, haven’t I?”

“Yes. But unless you start getting that ball down near the strike zone you’ll be walking the crowd.”

They picked up two runs. It was now 6–3, in favor of the Pirates.

Eddie remembered Tip’s warning when he got back on the mound and tried his best to groove his pitches. Nonetheless, he gave
up a hit and walked a man, almost hitting him on the shoulder with his fourth pitch.

The Pirates picked up one run that inning. It was the only one either team managed to score the rest of the game.

Pirates 7, Lancers 3.

“We played lousy,” Puffy grumbled as he, Tip, and Eddie headed through the gate for home. “Like a bunch of little kids who
never had a ball in their hands.”

“I hope we do better against the Surfs,” said Tip.

Eddie looked at him. “Why do you have to keep mentioning the Surfs?”

“We’re playing them next week, that’s why.”

“We know that. You don’t have to keep reminding us.”

Tip frowned. “Man, are you touchy. What did you have for lunch? Hot salami?”

“Don’t you get it?” Puffy cut in. “Monahan plays with the Surfs. And it’s a ninety-nine percent chance that he’ll be pitching.”

Tip laughed. “I know, I know. The last thing in the world old buddy Eddie wants is to pitch to a girl.” He turned and patted
Eddie gingerly on the back. “Well, old buddy, might as well stand up to the situation like a man. When she gets up to the
plate just pretend she’s another guy. She’s going to wear a uniform like the rest of her team. If you’re better than she is,
you’ll get her out in three pitches. Maybe less. If you aren’t better—”

Eddie raised a hand. “Just one cotton-pickin’ minute,” he interrupted. “You two twerps don’t seem to understand. She’s a
girl
. And I don’t think it’s right for a girl to play in a boys’ league. It’s meant for us, don’t you understand? She could be
darn good. Heck, my sister Margie could play better baseball than a lot of guys in our league, but does that qualify her to
play with us? No!”

“Like I said,” said Tip calmly, “she’s already on a team. No matter what you say or do you won’t change that.”

“Right,” agreed Puffy. “But I’m with you, Eddie. I don’t think a girl should play on a boys’ team, either.”

“What’s your reason?” asked Tip, turning to him. “The same as Eddie’s? Because she’s a
girl
?”

Puffy nodded. “And girls get hurt easier. They’re more fragile.”

“Baloney,” said Tip.

Eddie stared at him. “I suppose you think it’s okay for a girl to play on a boys’ team?”

Tip shrugged. “Look, if she’s good, why not? If she gets hurt it’s her own tough luck. She asked for it. She must’ve gotten
permission from her parents to play. They must’ve signed for her. Otherwise she wouldn’t be playing.”

“I still say she’s a girl,” said Eddie, refusing to yield to his friend’s arguments. “And girls shouldn’t —”

“Let’s knock it off,” Puffy broke in irritably. “There must be something better to talk about than a girl playing on a boys’
baseball team.”

“What about love?” Tip suggested, smiling.

“Hey, that’s an idea,” said Puffy. “You suppose she knows anything about
that
?”

“Love? Her?” Eddie sneered. “You’ve seen her face. She looks as if she grew up on hay.”

Puffy and Tip laughed.

None of them had much to say about anything during the rest of their journey home.

There were times during the next few days that Eddie wished Tuesday would never come. He was almost one hundred percent certain
that he was going to pitch against the Surfs, and a thought that had crossed his mind, one that he had not mentioned to a
living soul, was the possibility of Phyllis Monahan’s getting a hit off him — or maybe two. He remembered Puffy’s teasing
him, “Afraid that she’d get a hit off of you?” If she was as great a hitter as some of the guys on his team said she was,
she might wind up with an extra baser. He didn’t want to think what that would do to his ego.

Damn! Guys should never be shown up by girls, he thought. Why couldn’t she have found a girls’ baseball team to play on?

But he knew why, of course. Argus didn’t have a girls’ baseball team. It had girls’ softball teams, but apparently good ol’
Phyl Monahan thought she was too good to play on one of them.

Tuesday rolled around quicker than he wished, and Eddie learned for certain that a part of his fears was turning out true.
He was starting.

While the Lancers were playing catch near the first-base side of the ball park, the Surfs were taking
their batting practice. Eddie tried to pretend he didn’t care who batted, but from the corner of his eye he furtively watched
to see when Phyl Monahan would come up to the plate.

She was the fifth to bat. This might or might not mean she was fifth in the batting lineup. But when Tip laid his mitt against
his hip to take time out to watch her bat, Eddie found it was an excellent excuse for him to watch her, too.

A quick glimpse at the other Lancer players showed that they all were curious about her ability. Did she rate with the rest
of her teammates, or didn’t she?

She let the first pitch go by, hit the next one down to shortstop, the next to center field, and the next two to deep left.
The last drive hit the top of the fence, missed clearing it by inches, and bounced back onto the field.

Eddie turned away, not caring to see how well she could bunt.

“Hey, you see that?” Tip exclaimed, taking the mitt from his hip and resuming play.

Eddie grunted, preferring not to pursue the topic any further.

Tip smiled, as if he understood.

After the Surfs finished their batting practice, the Lancers took their turn. Lynn drilled a liner that hit
the center-field fence, and Dale lambasted one a few feet over it, the only two long drives hit among the Lancers’ thirteen
players.

From the quiet of their dugout the Lancers watched the Surfs work out in field practice, their attention drawn mainly to the
kid playing first base. Phyl Monahan.